


tidal flow

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aromantic, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hugs, Queerplatonic Relationships, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Círdan navigates the peculiar nature of his heart, and what he feels for Lalwen.
Relationships: Círdan | Nowë & Írimë | Lalwen
Comments: 13
Kudos: 22
Collections: Anna's A-spectrum Anthology





	tidal flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nowendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowendil/gifts).



> The first section of this story was originally part of my Hobbit/LOTR drabble collection, but I'm moving my Silm stuff out of that fic (I will also be reposting the comments from those chapters so I can preserve them) and it felt too short to post as its own work - so I expanded on it and ended up with this!
> 
> Originally prompted from an [aromantic writing prompt list](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/189731665547/aro-writing-prompts): Círdan + "aro love."  
> Aro Círdan is a favorite headcanon of mine, but I also like Lalwen/Círdan, so combining those two concepts into qp!Círwen was really a treat. Thanks to [nowendil](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/189822908852/i-dont-know-if-you-are-still-doing-these-god) for prompting me - here's a little surprise expansion of the ficlet I wrote for you like six months ago!!

Sometimes it astonished him, the depth of his affection for her. Sometimes it overwhelmed him, the warmth she brought to his life—sometimes he wondered if this, this was what they sang of in the great love ballads, and he’d finally found an elleth he could call his.

But then she would show that flash of Finwëan rashness, that wild independence, and Círdan would remember that the reason he loved Lalwen so was precisely because she was no one’s but her own.

* * *

“What are you looking at?” she asked him, quirking an eyebrow in his direction.

“Mm?” he said.

Lalwen rolled her eyes. “You’re staring at me, not your book.”

Círdan made a show of shoving his nose into the pages, and Lalwen let out of a snort of laughter. His heart lifted to hear her amusement, to know he was the cause of it—and how could he explain that to her? He didn’t feel for her what he was  _ supposed _ to feel, not that she harbored such affections for him. And they were both happy with that.

So he let her forget his slip, and he was more careful to avoid her notice the next time he couldn’t help but admire her beauty and her brilliant  _ fae _ , shining like sunset on the waters.

* * *

They danced together, Lalwen towering over him, hands clasped and bodies pressed together. It didn’t mean anything, not really; they just didn’t want to dance with anybody else, and as two fairly important politicians it would be rude to not dance at all.

And yet: Círdan smiled up at her, his dearest friend, and she spun him round and dipped him deeper than was strictly necessary, and laughter bubbled up within him alongside love. This was the ebb and flow of their friendship: gentle and subtle one moment, wild and thrilling the next.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed into her ear, and she blushed, and that niggling  _ what if _ came back to whisper in his uncertain mind.

* * *

He found her at the edge of the water, staring west. She’d  _ been _ west, she’d been born there, in the land Círdan longed to see and yet could not visit. Most times she spent energies focused eastward, against the Enemy, with her family, with her allies among his own people but on days like this...

“I miss my mother,” she said quietly. She didn’t turn her head as he approached, but she leaned into his touch when he placed his hands on her shoulders and began to work the tension out of them. “And my sister. And my little brother. Sometimes I wonder why I left.”

Something like grief choked Círdan’s throat. He didn’t know what to say to that.

“You’ll see them again,” he said at last. “Fingolfin, too.” And yet, would  _ he _ ? She’d told him so much about her family across the sea, and he had greatly admired the late High King of the Noldor. He  _ wanted _ to see them. But no matter how the sea tugged at his soul, he had a purpose here, and it would be many ages yet before it was complete.

“Will I?” She laughed bitterly. “The Doom lies heavy upon my people. I cannot return, and they will not come hither.”

“I’ll build you a boat,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You won’t come with me, though.”

“I can’t. I...” He  _ wanted  _ to, but every time he took a ship out to sea, he came home with the tides. Ulmo guided him back, whispering in his dreams:  _ Not yet. Not yet. _

At last she looked up at him, eyes full of tears. “Círdan, I... I can’t regret coming. Ñolo needed me, and I would never have met you, if I hadn’t.”

If Círdan loved her like he should, he would have kissed her then, let her know exactly how he felt. But he didn’t. And she wouldn’t have wanted that, either.

Instead he wraps his arms around her in an embrace. “I am glad to be your friend, Lalwen,” he murmured.

“Fingon will be King,” she whispered. “I could’ve fought him for the crown, but...he’ll do a good job. It will be hard enough for our people to have a new person on the throne, I don’t need to make it harder. I never wanted to be Queen, anyway.” She paused. “And I don’t want to leave you.”

He held her, feeling her unsteady breathing against his body as she wept for the brother she had lost. He had no brothers, but he imagined losing her, and he couldn’t let her go.

* * *

“I love you,” he said at last, too late, too late.

Lalwen froze. She lowered the helmet she had been about to don, turning back to face him, her mouth a grim line.

“Círdan,” she began, but he shook his head.

“Not like that,” he said, his voice shaking nonetheless. “I don’t want—to wed you. I don’t want to hold you down. I don’t want a wife, I never have. But I love you, Lalwendë; you’re dearer to me than any other, despite all that, and I... I know you must go, fight your nephew’s war. But please. Come back. I can’t bear to lose a friend like you.”

For a moment he thought she would laugh. But instead she smiled.

“I love you, too, Círdan,” she said softly. “I thought you knew that.”

“I do,” he murmured. “And I know you know how dear your friendship is to me. But I wanted to say it—so you had something to remember. Even if you don’t return, one way or another.”

“I will return,” Lalwen promised. “Fingon needs his diplomat-aunt more than he needs a warrior-aunt, most times.”

“I would tell you to be safe, but I know you won’t,” he said, his grin crooked.

“And I’d tell you to think of yourself sometimes, but you’re too good a leader for that.” She shook her head, then pulled him into a crushing embrace. He held onto her tightly, not minding that much that her armor was stiff and cold.

“I’ll come back,” she said. “My home is here, by the sea, with you. The tide leaves, but it always comes back. I will, too.”

He wiped a tear from his eye. “I know. I know.”

But he would miss her until she did—and he would love her, in his own peculiar way, even if she didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon is that Lalwen does come back from the Nírnaeth - in my mind, she dies sacrificing herself to save Finarfin in the War of Wrath, so she and Círdan still have some years together after this :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
